Cade hated this place, hated Sanctuary. Only his brother’s death could have brought him back. Targ knew Terrel had been the only person Cade really cared about and now he was dead.
“Gods,” Targ mouthed. He heard a cry. It sounded like a woman. The lonely sound was lost in the wind. Was it fear in that sound, or madness? In Sanctuary it was hard to tell the two apart. Perhaps he should go and see, perhaps . . . but no. His illusions of being the great hero were long gone, lost in that same night that had taken his ordinary mortality away.
He would help Cade as he always did. First because Cade only asked him to help kill those who deserved it, the real bastards. And second because Cade knew, knew of his curse and never showed fear, or disgust … or much of anything.
How could he explain to Cade that he liked Sanctuary? There was something here, something that soothed and calmed the curse. He had only needed to kill twice since he came here. For two months he had lived with the slave girl and successfully hidden the truth from her. And both of the kills had been ones who deserved it … Targ growled softly In his throat, remembering the screams and the blood. Murderers and rapists both, they had deserved it. They had.
He had heard there was a vampire here, Ischade. A vampire. In all the years he had been fighting the great war, never had he met a real vam- pire, or for that matter a real werewolf.
Cade watched the sun rise slowly, its light defining the harsh edge of Sanctuary. He reached back and slowly braided his long hair. It was an Ilsigi warbraid, something not seen in Sanctuary in a long time, some- thing Cade had to do. He was returning, but he wouldn’t do it quietly, or simply. He was back and the braid was his way of making one thing clear: No one and nothing would make him bow. He was not the same boy who had run away so long ago; run with the blood of a merchant on his hands, blood he had never meant to shed. But one thing was still the same. He had left as a killer and he was returning as one.
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